


the illusion of each day

by Walutahanga



Category: Almost Human, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 01:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14153268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga
Summary: Detective Kennex, one of the few surviving cops in the Colonial Fleet, is assigned a case with possible cylon connections. Which would be fine if he weren't also assigned a brand new Marine as a partner who won't stop bugging him.





	the illusion of each day

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I finally managed to write a murder mystery!
> 
> Just in case it's not clear, the backstory on Anna and Kennex is more or less the same, just the order is a bit shifted around. She seduced him for information for some shadowy end, he found out. The biggest difference is that in this world his leg was injured in the cylon attack on the colonies.

John’s life doesn’t change much in the Fleet. Oh sure, the details are different. He’s walking corridors and cargo holds instead of foot paths and open roads. Every so often there’s a screaming alarm signalling a cylon attack and the sickening jolt of an inter-stellar jump. The food is shit, the booze is awful, and he’d give his badge for a non-rationed shower.

But the general rhythm of his life remains the same. He gets up, goes to work. Chases criminals, avoids paperwork, bitches at Mendoza, and goes home alone. If he’s staring at the bottom of a bunk in a crowded dorm instead of the ceiling of his bedroom on Tauron, it’s still the same old nightmares.

“You’re fracking pathetic,” Richard sneered at John once (admittedly after John made a crack about Richard’s dead fiancé). “What did you lose with the colonies? Wife? Family? Friends? Oh, that’s right, you _didn’t_. At least the rest of us had something to lose.”

The shitty thing about Richard is that he’s not always wrong.

Occasionally, if John’s feeling particularly masochistic, he’ll think about the day of the attacks. He remembers it mostly in pieces, like jigsaw puzzles that don’t quite come together. The scrape of pavement against his back, a voice muttering _‘come on, come on, frack you’_. The obscenely clear blue sky. Cracked concrete. A car on fire. Somewhere people screaming and crying. Then the high thin whine of a shuttle descending and a flash of emergency blue-and-red lights.

He can remember a paramedic putting an oxygen mask over his mouth and the calm, reassuring rumble of his voice, but not the words.

Anna though. Her he remembers loud and clear, rising over the fog. “He’s a cop, okay. He’s one of you.” More rumbles and mutters, meaningless over the roar of explosions in the distance. Then her face looming over his, outlined in the glow of a distant fire. “Now we’re even, okay John? We’re even.”

He thinks she kissed him, but he’s not sure if that’s a real or false memory. It’s fitting, really, considering that so much about her turned out to be false.

When he woke up six months later in a hospital bed on the Adriatic, they told him that she’d left the shuttle. No reason for it, just turned her back and walked back out into chaos. Had it been a gesture of redemption? Defiance? Insanity? Had she thought there was another escape route? Or had she simply decided she’d rather not live past the end of the world?

Most days, he tries not to think about it. Easier that way.

* * *

“I’m assigning you a partner,” Mendoza says six months after John wakes up.

“Gods, not another Marine.” John thinks his track record with Marines speaks for itself. The higher ups’ decision to use them to do police-work was well-meant, but they’re not cops. Their job is to keep civil unrest to a minimum, not solve crimes. The few real officers in the Fleet are overworked and understaffed, and dragging around a meat-headed Marine escort is less like having a partner and having a really big, stupid guard dog that needs to be watched in case it pisses all over crime scenes or barks at the wrong person.

“We’re not exactly flush with choice, John,” Mendoza points out.

“Come on, just give me Stahl. You know we work well together.”

“Stahl is making good progress with her Marine.”

“Oh yeah, Max can fetch and roll over. He’s real smart. I don’t have time to train up some idiot until he’s semi-competent.”

Mendoza gives him a look somewhere between amused and impatient. “If you actually spent the time to train your partners, instead of finding excuses to get rid of them, you would have someone competent by now. So this time you’re not getting a choice. I’m assigning you a partner.”

“Chief–!”

“No arguments. You screw this up and I’m going to recommend mandatory cross-departmental training.” When John frowns at her, not getting it, she says sweetly: “You. With the Marines. They’ll be delighted to have you.”

John starts to call her bluff, then recalls he’s made the lives of several Marines a living hell – no way would any of them pass up the chance to return the favour.

“…fine. Who’s this new partner of mine?”

“Dorian Vaughn. He’s a transfer from the Pegasus – ”

“The Pegasus? Oh come _on_ , those guys are crazy!”

The chief talks right over him “ – and he’s waiting in the conference room now. Go try be a human being. Or the gods help me, I’m handing you over to the Marines gift-wrapped.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” He figures he can wait until she’s in less of a mood, or is distracted by some disaster, to ditch his new ‘partner’. It won’t take that long. There’s always some new disaster in the making.

* * *

John figures out quick that Dorian isn’t like the previous Marines he’s been partnered with. He hasn’t quite mastered that impassive face somewhere between “I don’t give a flying frack” and “I will cut you”. He fidgets. He asks questions. He drops the ‘sir’ without being asked and addresses John like they’re buddies.

“Have you even finished Marine school?” Kennex snaps after the third time Dorian re-starts a conversation he’d thought successfully shut down.

“It’s called basic training,” Dorian shoots back. “And no, I haven’t. My class was on the Pegasus for our first space jump when the attacks happened.”

“Great. I not only get a Marine. I get a half-baked one.”

“Man, you’re lucky to have me. I’m the only one who’s even attended the Police Academy.”

Kennex pauses. “You used to be a cop?”

“Was going to be, before my parents died one semester in. Then my brother and I had to support my sister through college and our inheritance wasn’t going to cut it. Figured Marines made good money, I could do that for a few years and go back to the Academy later.” Unspoken goes the fact that ‘later’ is never going to happen now. Not for him or anyone else.

So maybe the guy’s not completely useless. At least he _wants_ to be a cop, which is more than John could say for any of his predecessors.

Then Dorian says “What about you? How’d you end up here?” and squanders all the good will he just built up.

John grits his teeth and bites out “The same way we all ended up here” and detours the conversation. “So what was with that cylon chick? I hear all the Pegasus Marines got to bang her.”

A short, cold silence. “Not all of us,” Dorian replies tightly.

“Yeah, but you didn’t stop it, right? No one stepped up and said hey, that’s not cool.”

“One guy did. Cain shot him in the head. And for the record, if you didn’t want to answer the question, all you had to do was ask.”

* * *

It’s a rough start. Not helped by a double homicide on the Cassandra.

“Looks like we’re diving in the deep end, rookie,” John says, striding past the police line, trusting Dorian to follow him. He notes the look that passes between Dorian and the Marine on duty, filing it away for later.

“Fine by me,” Dorian says. “What do you want me to do?”

“Try not to get in the way or step in the blood. That’s evidence. And if you’re going to throw up, make sure it’s on Richard. He loves that.”

“Noted.”

John strides over to Dr Rudy, one of two very over-worked coroners in the Fleet. “Rudy, what have we got?”

“Two dead bodies.”

“I got that. Anything more specific.”

“Well…” Rudy gestures. “Take a closer look. At the faces.”

John peers at the bodies. At first he doesn’t see it, one with a beard, one without, and then the resemblance snaps into place. “They’re the same. Shit. Cylons?”

“We don’t think so. We’ve checked the ship registers and they’ve been living openly ever since they came on board.”

“Openly as what?” 

“Twins,” Dorian says from behind John. “They’re the Slater brothers; the only surviving set of identical twins in the Fleet.”

“How do you know this stuff?” John says disgustedly as Rudy rises to his feet to offer his hand to Dorian.

“And you must be Detective Kennex’s new partner. Good luck. I mean, not that you need it. I’m sure those rumours weren’t true. I’m sure he didn’t actually mean to shove his partner in front of that forklift–”

“Rudy!” John snaps. “Bodies.”

“Right. So the twins were bludgeoned to death by what looks like similar weapons. Or maybe the same weapon, it’s hard to tell. Looks like someone was lying in wait inside their rooms, took down the first one as he entered. The second one must have seen and put up more a fight.”

“Bad way to go,” Dorian remarks quietly. “They survived the end of the world, just to die like this.”

“If they’d been smarter and lived apart, this might not have happened,” John snaps, and Dorian just gives him this placid, faintly disappointed look.

“Would you be able to live apart from the last person you had left in the world?”

* * *

The twins’ neighbourhood doesn’t offer up any clues. They hadn’t been popular for obvious reasons. At their workplace, ‘ _cylon_ ’ has been sprayed across their lockers in red paint and no one’s giving up the culprit.

“So,” Dorian says while he and John are going through the locker. “What was that about the forklift?”

“Nothing,” Johns says. “Rudy’s making shit up.”

“I don’t know. I heard some pretty weird rumours about you. The Marines think you tried to kill Edds.” 

“Hey, that was an accident.”

“So it did happen.”

John sighs. “We had words, I shoved him. I didn’t know that forklift  was coming, alright.” When Dorian raises an eyebrow, John adds irritably: “He was fine – it didn’t even clip him. I don’t know what he was whining about.”

“Edds faced actual real cylons on Caprica. He says he’d rather go back there than be your partner again.”

John scoffed. “And what about you? How are you holding up?” He realises too late he’s enquired about Dorian’s well-being.

Dorian grins. “You’re a prick, but you’re honest about it.”

“Yeah, well. You’re only here because Mendoza said it was you or boot-camp. I picked one idiot over a thousand of them.”

“Now that’s just hurtful.” Dorian pauses, pulling out a pamphlet. “I’ve seen these before. Some Gemenon religious group print them. Watch your neighbours, that sort of thing.”

“Civilian watchdogs? Sounds like a good place to find a vigilante.”

* * *

The local Gemenon priest is defensive. “We’re just trying to inform the people.”

“By inciting panic and suspicion.” John slaps the pamphlet down. “You know these are illegal, right? We could take you in for interfering with military affairs.”

“It’s perfectly legal on Gemenon."

“Not on Caprica, and we’re running under a Caprican flag these days.” John shrugs. “I’m sure the lawyers will sort it out in your favour. Should only take a few weeks. Months at worst.”

The priest’s mouth tightens. “What do you want?” She says, which are exactly the words John wants to hear.

“Is there anyone among your parishioners with a history of violence?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a number of people from the Astral Queen on board.”

“Anyone who’s taken an interest in locating cylons and might take matters into their own hands.”

The woman blinks slowly. “May I ask why you’re interested?”

Dorian says in that quiet, clam way of his: “Two men were killed on deck three. We believe the murderer decided they were cylons.”

The priest sits very still for a long few moments. “Brandon and Nate,” she says softly. “It’s them, the Slater brothers, isn’t it?”

“You knew them?”

“I saw Nate every week at services. I only met his brother a few times. They tried not to be seen together in public…” She trails off. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Did anyone take issue with them?” Dorian presses.

The priest seems be caught in her own world, focus elsewhere. She snaps back at Dorian’s question. “There was one. Lucas Dowra. He’s from the Astral Queen and he got into a fight with Nate once, right after prayer. You should talk to him.”

* * *

“How’s the newby?” Stahl asks, leaning over John’s dividing wall. “Tried to kill him yet?”

“Very funny, and no. How’s Max? Has he learned to take finger-prints yet like a big boy or does he still need mommy to help him out?”

Where Richard would have huffed up, Stahl just gives him a radiant smile. “Max is coming along beautifully, thank you for asking. How’s the case though? I heard it was a nasty one.”

It’s hard to be sarcastic at her when she smiles like that. John drops his gaze to his desk. “Two brothers, killed by some asshole who thought they were cylons.”

“Maybe they were,” Richard remarks, stopping by to dump a pile of folders on John’s desk. “Ever think of that? Maybe you’re looking for someone who did us all a favour.”

Richard’s just looking for a rise, John knows, and he’s more than happy to give it to him. “Sure, lets let the vigilantes go out and do the work for us. That can’t possibly backfire.”

He grabs his jacket and limps across the room to where Dorian is coming in the door.

“How’s the leg?”

“Hurts like hell, never ask me that again. Did you find him?”

Dorian nods. “He resisted arrest, he’s now in holding.”  He holds the door open for John, which John would have snarled at him for if he was sure it was pity.  As is, it’s with a distinct mocking edge so John just ignores it.

“Lets see what Mr Dowra has to say for himself.”

* * *

Not a lot, as it turns out. Lucas Dowra is an old hand at being interrogated by cops; he won’t be drawn other than to say that he never did anything to either brother and hadn’t committed any crime. 

“You got into a fight with Nate though,” John points out.

“That was both of us,” Lucas points out in a thick lower-Gemenon accent as if he’s making some important distinction. “And we was cool after that.”

“So you didn’t accuse him of being a cylon?”

Lucas gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “Nate weren’t no cylon. Cylons aren’t bein’ dumb enough to go walkin’ around togeths in the open. Obvs.”

It’s actually a fairly logical conclusion; not something John would have expected from a man with a gangland tattoo on the side of his neck.

“What was the fight about then?” Dorian asks.

Lucas gets a stubborn look. “That’s us business.”

“No, it’s our business,” John says. “Seeing as Nate is dead now, and you’re the only one with a history of violence with him.”

“Weren’t me. Nate and me sorted our shit long time ago.” Lucas shrugs, making the handcuffs rattle. “Go ask the deck supe. I been on the Sargon all last week. Onee got back this morn.”

* * *

“Gah!” John flings a file of paper at the wall.

Frack he hates it when a lead goes nowhere. All that effort wasted on nothing. Lucas’ alibi checks out; when the Slater twins were dying, he was on the Sargon getting wasted with his buddies. There’s at least ten people who can attest to it, including several off-duty pilots he’d picked a fight with.

“If your leg is hurting you, take your pills,” Dorian says calmly, bending down to pick up papers.

“That is none of your gods-damned business.”

“If you’re in pain, you’re not thinking straight.”

“If I’m on the pills I can’t think straight anyway.” John grits his teeth and sits down, digging his fingers into the seizing muscle of his thigh. At least there’s no forklift around this time.

Dorian surprisingly lets it go. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe it’s not a vigilante at all. What if this was personal.” He nudges a photo across. “According to the blood splatters, Brandon was attacked first. Perhaps Brandon was the intended target, and Nate just happened to walk in on them.”

“Killed to cover up the first murder.” John feels around inside his drawer until he finds the bottle of Vicodin. He pops the cap, dry-swallows two pills, and refuses to look at Dorian's smug face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

* * *

Brandon, unfortunately, is utterly boring. About the most scandalous thing about him is a collection of carefully accrued paper-back novels bought on the black-market. He was a good worker according to his boss; signed in on time, never left before the job was done.

“He asked me for extra hours,” he says, rolling chewing gum in his cheek. “Would have given it to him if we had any.”

John frowned. “Any reason he was looking for extra hours?”

“More money, I assume for the baby.”

John stopped, looked up. “Baby?”

“Yeah. His brother knocked up some lady at his church. Branden was trying to get extra money to help them out.” The boss adds belatedly: “He asked me to keep it all hush-hush. Them Gemenons, yeah.”

“Yeah,” John agrees on reflex. “Did you get a name for this lady?”

“Sorry. It’s a real damn shame. Branden was looking forward to being an uncle. Never saw a man more excited for a kid that wasn’t his.”

John asks a few more questions, but the man has nothing else to offer. As they walk away he hisses to Dorian: “Gods-damn it. We are _this_ close, I can feel it. Now we’re going to have to subpoena medical records.”

“Maybe not,” Dorian says thoughtfully.

* * *

Lucas is unimpressed at being questioned twice in one day. “Told you already. I didn’t do it.”

“This is not about that,” Dorian says. “This is about the fight you had with Nate. You knew he’d gotten a woman pregnant, didn’t you. Someone from the church group. That’s why you got into a fight with him, and that’s why you patched things up when it looked like he was doing the right thing.”

Lucas’ gaze shifted to the back wall. “Don’t know nothin’ about that. Musta’ bin some other church.”

Fracking Gemenons. “Look,” John says. “It’s real nice that you’re protecting her reputation, but right now she’s in a lot more danger than that. Someone beat Brandon to death, and Nate to cover it up – you really think they’re going to stop at a pregnant woman?”

Lucas hesitates.

* * *

The priest is doing stocktake when they arrive.

“Should you really be lifting boxes right now?” John drawls. She starts at his arrival. “In your condition,” he elaborates.

“How– ” she wets her lips. “Lucas told you.”

“Funny, that. He protected you this whole time, and you threw him under the bus first chance you had.”

She sighs. “Look. I should have told you about Nate. But I was in shock, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I doubt that. The test results came back. The pathologist says he was beaten by something square-shaped. Something like a prayer statue.”

The woman says nothing.

“What was it?” John says. “Nate change his mind? Decide he didn’t want to marry you after all? Except Brandon walked in first and he had to go too –”

“I never meant to hurt Nate.” The woman covered eyes for a moment. “I didn’t want to hurt Brandon either. Gods, if I could have avoided it, I would have. But it had to be done.”

“Why?” Dorian says gently.

“Why? You saw them. What they looked like. What people said about them. I couldn’t marry a man people were calling a cylon. Not with a child on the way.”

Dorian’s expression does something complicated. “You killed Brendan to make the rumours go away? So that you could marry Nate?”

She nods. “I thought if he was gone, people would stop talking about it. It would all go away and they’d forget. Except Nate came home early and he didn’t understand.” She shakes her head. “I should have been more careful.”

It’s that faint, regretful tone that really pisses John off. Like she’s more upset at being caught than anything else.

“I bet that’s what Nate thought too,” he says, getting out the handcuffs. “Must have sucked the big one to find out you’re in love with a murderous psycho.”

* * *

That night he goes drinking, only for Dorian to show up at the bar beside him.

“You shouldn’t be drinking on your medication.”

“Frack you,” John responds.

“Just pointing out tomorrow will be a little less miserable for both of us if you tone it down.”

“Gods, what are you, my husband?”

“You should be so lucky.”

It’s easier to drink less with Dorian there to distract him. John figures he’s had enough when he starts telling Dorian about Caprica and Anna.

“I can’t stop thinking – why did she walk out of the shuttle? She could have made it. But she chose to stay behind.”

“You’re thinking she’s a cylon,” Dorian says, adeptly following his line of thought. “That she stayed behind because she had nothing to fear.”

“Yeah.” John waits for Dorian to say something. “What, you’re not going to argue?”

“I think you’ve already argued yourself out of it enough times. There’s plenty of reasons she could have decided to walk away. Perhaps she saw the end of the world and decided to end it on her terms. But you are missing one thing.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

“Whoever and whatever she was – whether she’s human or cylon – she didn’t have to save you. Either way you look at it, she cared about you.”

John looks at his empty glass. “I think that might make it worse,” he finally admits.

Dorian squeezes his leg under the table. “Come on. I have a bunk.”

* * *

Sleeping with his partner – his brand new rookie partner – is a mistake. John does it anyway. It’s the end of the world. Might as well get some sinning in before the end.

Dorian’s careful to keep his weight off John’s leg. He seems to like kissing John, and John allows it.

Afterwards, as he’s lying on the edge of sleep, curled between Dorian and the back of the bunk, he notices the photos stuck to the wall. He lifts a hand, trails fingertips down the face of a pretty girl with curly hair, the faces of the two men either side of her…

“There’s two of you,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” Dorian shifts a bit to see what he’s looking at. “Oh. Yeah, my brother.”

“You’re a twin?”

“I was.”

John nods, half-thoughts floating through his head, not quite coming together. Men with the same faces. Death from the sky. Seducers worming their way under his guard. End of the world, and they’re all going to burn one way or another.

Dorian kisses his shoulder. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

John closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Your Breast Is Enough" by Pablo Neruda, which is about the desire for connection and the power of illusion.


End file.
